


Eternal

by sendmeademon



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angel/Demon AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7190849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendmeademon/pseuds/sendmeademon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seraphs are the closest angels to The Throne, the most powerful, and yet, Historia is sent to end a low rank demon's life. It should be an easy task, she thinks as she gets completely lost in the forest.</p><p>With her life in her enemy's hand, who will pick the shards of her soul?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternal

A green sea of huge trees that spreads below her naked feet is not something Historia is able to see very often, and as everything in the human world, she is fascinated by it. A shimmering waterfall catches her eye, and then the song of some birds drinking from a clear river, and so, she lets those little wonders amaze her a brief instant, after which she goes on flying, flapping her three pairs of wings. If someone sees her doing it like that! She doesn't even want to think about it. As a Seraph, she should use the central pair to actually fly, while the lower pair covers her feet to express humbleness and the higher ones cover her face. According to the rest of the angels, no one is worthy of appreciating her beauty, to even feel the grace of God in her smile, but God itself.

Thank God, she is alone, completely, and with her sword in her belt, she has a mission. Of course, it hasn't been a command from Erwin, the right hand of The Most High, it doesn't have such importance, but one of her brothers with her same range. While he sang to convey the mission to her, he had sounded surprised: She had to go to the human world to end the life of a demon.  _Is that demon so strong that it is needed a Seraph to kill it?_ She wonders then, narrowing her blue glass eyes, looking for some clue. That forest is so vast, and the Tiger's Eye could be anywhere, but it won't escape for much longer from Historia. 

She lands on a branch, like a majestic bird that attracts the smaller ones, and closes her mundane eyes, to open the spiritual one. It's not difficult to sense that trace of energy trying to hide in the deepest part of a glare, and she opens her eyes again, determined. It's not even that far away. She'll fly for ten minutes, less perhaps, and she'll be right at the demon's door, accomplishing her duty.

However, ten minutes go by, and then twenty, and twenty more, and she can't stop to trace circles without a concrete direction. What is she doing? What is she there for? The more she flies, the more confused she feels, and she finds herself suddenly forced to descend and walk, hurting her delicate feet, unused to that action. She wanders and she feels worse and worse, and the sting in her fingertips spread like snakes to her legs and her arms. She can nearly walk. Who is she? She feels her wings. An angel, she is an angel. She breathes. She is Historia, fifth Seraph of God. She looks for... What is she looking for? She sees a house, a very little cottage made of stone, with an off chimney and a well gurgling some metres away. She sees a thick wooden door opening, and a tan woman drills her with those ink swirls she has for eyes.

The woman blinks once, they look at each other in slow motion, and little by little the spell wears out and she is highly aware of what was she doing. She looked for a murderous Tiger's eye, a regular demon who had ended the life of so many minor angels, and even with the seventh archangel, and she has found it. The surprising thing is that it is not a Tiger's Eye, but something much worse. An Onyx! For the first time in lots of centuries, Historia's guts feel something funny, in a way not angelical at all: Fear.

The Onyx has already reacted, slower than expected, but even so faster than Historia, and she jumps over her body like a hunter and its prey. Historia draws her sword with an incredible speed, but she only gets to scratch the leather that covers the demon's shoulder. She feels how the skin in contact to the other's skin is burning, and the pain is driving her to madness, but the Onyx seems quite familiar with it. The angel struggles, jumps, flaps her wings, they start fighting with swords and nails and sharp teeth. They cut flesh and hair, which regenerates in an instant, both of them looking for their necks.

The demon's back lands abruptly and now, it's Historia who has her against the ropes, so close to the evil being that she just has to raise her arm and sink her claws into Historia's chest, holding her heart with her hand and smirking at her. She won't kill her like that, but she'll leave her out of combat. The angel lets her sword slip out of her hand, still as an statue, scared of breathing, and she looks at the demon's eyes again, she allows her to watch her, or more than that, to stare at her. The Onyx squints her eyes, like the light that Historia radiates burns her retinas, and her expression softens. Will she let her go? Historia still hopes. 

Her chest is burning where the Onyx is touching her, and soon enough her face also is, surprised by a curious stroke from the demon. The angel struggles, in pain, biting her lip, and that's the only thing that gets the demon out of her stupor and makes her hold tighter her organ. Historia falls on her knees. They are burning her alive, and death twitching is trying to stay away from the flames.

"What's your name?" The Onyx asks, distracted, with her two hands still on her. She is grabbing forcefully her chin, so Historia won't avert her dark, dark eyes.

"Christa."

With her last breath, the name that comes out is one she has been trying to forget, her human name, not the one graciously given by the Throne to her, and she doesn't know why. She had stopped wanting to be Christa, she doesn't have that urge anymore, doesn't she? Either way, she is too busy trying, in vain, to make the fire disappear. The darkness of the demon swallows her, and one of the most powerful angels of God surrenders.

 

[ ... ]

 

Ymir has perceived a disturbance in her spell caused by a greater force some time ago, and she finds weird that whoever it is hasn't left already, flying towards their magpie nest, forgetting about their mission. Has The Throne sent a Cherub? Not even them could beat her. While she powers up her spell, focused on her cottage's floor, she hears those steps, as light as a whisper. Getting up and opening the door, she does it in the duration of a sigh, finding in front of her the worst king of flying scum: A Blue Glass, or how they name themselves, a Seraph. Ymir only sees her wings, the shine blinds her, and she jumps to attack her. She has to admit, Seraph's not bad, but she is much better. What else could be expected from a lieutenant general, from an scary Onyx?

She attacks without a single doubt, she lets her body fall to the earth, and there she finds the angel unprepared and she grabs an organ which should be vital. Due to her condition, if she crushes it, she'll leave her out of combat a few days. More than enough time. She allows herself to raise her eyes, and there Ymir is doomed. Angel's beauty is always unspeakable, but this one's was exaggerate. Much better than a painting in any museum, but sharing one feature with them. She could be looking at her all day, all week, all eternity, and she would never get bored. 

With lots of pain and little delicacy she caresses her cheek, just to make sure she is real. She asks for her name and she enjoys her chirpy voice, with the way her lips part almost unnoticeably. The angel trembles, and Ymir, stunned, squeezes her heart until the other falls unconscious.

The week next to the accident, she neglects her job to take care of the beautiful Christa. Her wings are soft as silk, and she can't see them muddy and sticky with leaves, as well as her golden hair. She washes her often in the nearby waterfall, she heals her wounds with ointments and looks out for her during the evening. That little fowl has bewitched her, and it seems normal. It's impossible, not to love Christa. How could she hurt her so badly? Ymir despairs between those four walls, she hates to be trapped, but she doesn't want to leave her alove. The times she goes out can be counted with the fingers of one hand, and despite it sounding stupid, she spends all her time talking to her. It is safe, since she's not really conscious.

Ymir is not a woman for big words, but she thinks a lot, very fast, and she tells Christa what she hasn't told to anyone in clumsy, rough stories. Work's pressure, only done due to her debt with Annie, the Great Morning Star. It only consists on organizing her troops, she doesn't make her hands dirty, not often. How peaceful she feels with a retired life, far away from her place of birth, where everything is shouting and chaos and fire. The angels that had fallen on her hands, sent to take her back to her place, whom she had to murder because they wouldn't leave her be. The regret, for not being able to pity them, or not even regrets. It's in her nature. 

So many things she hasn't thought before, and they just come out unexpectedly, sprinkled with long whiles of admiration. "Is God that beautiful, Christa? As beautiful as you?" She asks, captivated. And she gts used to put on gloves in her daily life, to get out only if she needs to summon one of her subordinates, all to make her recovery more comfortable. Christa has her heart in her tiny fist, like Ymir has had hers, and it is so pathetic and real that the only thing left is for her to wake up.

 

[ ... ]

 

And she does. Historia wakes up few days after, but previously she had been recovering her senses little by little. Also, obviosly, her hearing. She has listened patiently to her captor, or should she say saviour, in the circumpstances she is in? And confusion just gets bigger and bigger. Demons feel. Demons suffer. Demons worry, and they struggle, and they... Love? She can't understand Ymir.

The house is very much like the features she knows about the demon's personality. She lives with few things, a table there, a chair here, and since she has arrived, an alit chimney. Some paintings decorate the walls, most of them open scenarios: the see, a hill, the night sky, amongst others. It is small, that she could see it from the exterior, and at first sight, Historia is surprised with the tidiness that spreads over every surface. Towels, tunics, tiny sandals, everything jostled but in its place, with some kind of method.

Stretching in order to make her legs feel less numb, her wings push every item in reach. She folds them inmediately, bending them against her back, and even so they caress the floor as she moves. If she was an Archangel, she would know how to store them between her scapulae, but it hasn't been necessary for her until then. She is ewak, so she goes back to the bed she was lying on. At least she had the intention to, until she sees the demon lying on it, getting up to sit, staring hard at her. Historia straightens her back, and Ymir softens her face. She seems to be thinking something insulting.  _Poor, innocent angel._

"How are you?" Ymir asks, almost uninterested, getting on her feet without mesuring her speed. She causes a bad response in the little angel: she wraps herself with her six wings, remembering the verses of a protector charm. "If I wanted to kill you, I would have, don't be an idiot."

Historia recognizes her in her words. After all, Ymir has been talking to her in a never-ending monologue for quite a bit of time. Her expressions are familiar, and they are funny, too. She loosens her protection's shield around her and nods.

"You are right, it's just... Why did you do it?" She questions back, and Ymir must feel like her eyes want to steal away all of her secrets by force. She isn't sure if angels have that power of persuasion demons have, and she says that, no, they don't need to.

"I've asked you how you are, Christa," Ymir snaps, not wanting to lose nor time neither words in questions she doesn't want to answer.

"Oh! I'm... I'm fine. I've healed almost completely, but you must know that better than me, don't you?

She lifts both her arms and she rolls up her thin tunic's sleeves, checking how the cuts of the demonic sword have disappeared. Angel's healing is infallible. When she separates the cloth from her neck to check the wound in her chest, it is better than she had expected it, blurry, and she hopes it will fade soon. By the moment, the only weird thing is that she has called her Christa. It seems so strange, so far away. She is not Christa anymore, she doesn't want to, she reminds herself. Not she is a powerful angel, not an scared child. With authority, she declares:

"I'm glad you have spared my life and taken care of me, but I must leave."

She takes profit of the demon still sitting on the bed, in the opposite end of the door, to open it, get out and spread her wings. Oh, such happiness. She jumps a little bit, enough to get some impulse, and she already feels the cold breeze from the clouds on her cheeks... Or she doesn't? Her feet are stuck to the floor firmly. Her wings flap lazily, and despite its few weight, they can't hold her. She turn around with a desperate grimace, to the house, and she sees the demon leaning on the door's frame with her crossed arms, her shoulders risen, an  _I told you_ in her face that's making Historia sick. She walks towards her in long steps, and she looks huge for Ymir, but the demon's not affraid. She rises her chin and stares at her from above. Ymir is still taller than her, stronger, faster.

"You don't stand a chance against me," she sing songs, leaning in so she'll feel the power in her dark eyes. Unlike Christa, she can persuade, but with an angel of such high rank, it causes her a headache. Also, she's only stating a fact. "Whether you like it or not, it's me or the wolfs. And, even if they seem better option, I'm a little more civilizated than them."

The blond one complains, gritting her teeth white as pearls. Ymir doesn't have to be so mean to her. The girl Historia has listened to is nicer, unexperted but more relaxed and funny, where is she? Two can play that game. She steps in the cottage, brushing Ymir's shoulder with her forearm, and she gets back to the bed, facing the wall. She'll stay, but she's not going to enjoy it one bit. She hates her, she hates that situation. If she can't fly, how will she get back? It's logical that her terrenal body has healed against a demon's atack but her wings, manifestation of her angelical power, are as weak as withered sprigs. So, when would they heal? She can't stay there, with Ymir, for long. She can't because that woman ignores her, that woman treats her bad, she is a demon, and judging based on her long looks she hides something.

As she feels another body falling beside her, she gets closer to the wall the most she can, static for a while, evaluating th situation. How could have Ymir thought this would be a good idea? It's an invasion of her intimacy! It doesn't help her to feel comfortable! She turns around to tell her, but she finds her looking at her again with those pair of ink swirls, more stiff than how Historia remembers her in her nights of semi-conscious rest. Ymir has covered them both with a blanket, carefully, despite the fact that an angel can hardly feel coldness. Plus, she feel her pillow soft and fluffy. So Ymir's not... That bad. She isn't? Far from being uncomfortable, they stay in that position, until Historia closes her eyes and lets her body be washed away by the trance.

 

[ ... ]

 

The demon, following her old traditions, won't stay away from her for a single minute, not even to let her breathe. She protects her every night, with the burdensome gloves on so she can caress her hair and her smooth skin without being affraid to wake her up due to a sting of pain. She understands her frustration. If she was in her place... Well, probably she would have slept on top of a branch, that's how annoying she can be. 

Sun is still getting up between the trees when she feels something pulling her, like it is twisting her from the insides. Annie. She gets up fast, not bothering to change her appearance, and gets out barefoot to the forest. She walks forward just a bit, running away from the deep glare to hide into the bushes, and she kneels and sighs on the earth, letting a demon more powerful than herself tear apart her very being.

 

[ ... ]

 

Meanwhile, Historia has felt Ymir's absence, and she turns in the bed, uncomfortable. She has a body cold as ice, but she is glad she gets to feel the heat, almost smothering, of the demon. She squints her eyes to look for her in the room, but she can't find her, and then she truly worries. Where is she? She waits some minutes, which seem eternal, and her supernatural perception detects her, but it's something as unusual as herself. She is, but she isn't at the same time. She can't feel something vital. They haven't trapped her, right? It's impossible. Then, what is she doing?

She follows the path of her instinct, and she gets lost once again. Damn it! Ymir has a spell on her, very strong, so angels won't detect her. And she is an angel, after all. If she wants to avoid getting lost again, she has to stop thinking about her. But she can't. What if something has happened to her? Her mind, normally organised, is a mess. She finds herself repeating her identity again in order not to lose her mind. "I'm Historia. The fifth Seraph of God. I'm in a mission to find... To find who?"

Because of that, she doesn't expect the growl of the animal who falls on top of her, with its sharp teeth ready to skin her alive. Is it just one? No, she hears now many more! They sound guttural, like the ones from a threatened dog, and with her ability to understand every language, rational or not, she knows they are screaming that they are very hungry, deathly hungry. She has stepped on a pack of wolfs. Completely synchronized, another two jump towards her. She covers her face with her arms, and when she feels them close enough, she opens them again, hitting them in the process. She adapts her throat to respond, to warn them, "I don't want to hurt you," but they are starved, fighting with the lacking strength, just like her. Her speciality is healing magic, and with no sword, she'll have to kill them by pure force and kicks and punchs, trying to get her neck away from them. She ends with the life of three of them without breaking a sweat, but they don't leave without fighting, leaving cuts in her arms and abdomen.

That's how Ymir finds her, with a rag for tunic, and her face focused and sad, jumping gracefully to avoid another animal's attack. If one hadn't seen the blood in her tiny body, or anger in the wolfs' red eyes, one would think she's dancing with them. Ymir only has to snap her fingers so the five remaining wolfs exploat or tear themselves apart right there, and not minding how dirty she'll get, she grabs Historia, one arm behind her back and the other on her back, making her rest against her chest. 

"Your eyes! They are like a Tiger's Eye's!" The angel shouts, amazed. Until a second ago, they had been pitch black, and now they are a shade between honey and bronze very characteristic of said demons.

"That's... A charm. They change of colour when I battle, so the angels will take me for a lower rank."

In the protecting arms of the demon, Historia thinks. An angel would have never done that, they are too prideful. Why would she want to do it? A little voice answers her wuestion. "So you'll think less of them and they can kill you better," and in her mind, she knows she is right. Ignoring the voice, she allows Ymir to carry her, standing all her scolding.

"Why did you get out when you're so weak? I warned you 'bout wild animals! Angels are all obedience, so obey, damn you! What would I have done if something had happened to you?"

Her voice sounds so distressed, and she squeezes her body against hers. Historia pouts, because Ymir has scratched through her gloves a cut on her arm, and she hurries to take her to the waterfall. She leaves her on top of a rock, like a cloth to dry, after she makes Historia promise her that she won't move an inch. She waits, impatient like a little child, swinging her legs and twisting back a little her neck. Her beauty and her ingenuity make her the perfect prey.

"C'mere, I'll clean those wounds, you disaster," and she gestures with her hand. She wants Historia to come closer, sit beside her on the grass by the edge of the little lake that the waterfall has created. It forms an almost-perfect circle. Historia thinks it must be spectacular in the evening, with the moon reflecting in the water and lighting it like a big spotlight. "Remove your tunic, I'm not going to fix it anyway."

"Excuse me,  _you_  are going to make me clean?" At first she doesn't understand her. More like she doesn't want to. The Throne would deny it fervently. An angel touched by a demon? So she shakes her head. "I don't mean to be rude, but you can't do that. Under any circumpstances."

"Who do you think has been cleaning you and healing those wounds I made you, your beloved Throne?" Ymir retorts, ironically, with the first smile Historia has ever seen, full of naughty fun. "Stop saying nonesense. I can strip you, if you want."

She sees the demon very eager to do so, but she won't be scared of her. Determined, she gets up to sit by her side this time, where she rips her tunic a bit more to go step by step: First they clean the wounds on her arms and shoulders, then the ones on the feet, the abdomen, and then the face. Ymir holds the cloth and her touch seem a butterfly's flapping her wings on her skin. She's treating her like a glass doll. She feels a little glad, but much more than that, outraged. She is a Seraph, one of the highest rank's angels! She has fought a thousand battles, against a thousand demons, and she has always been victorious. Of course, none of them had been an Onyx like her, or an Obsidian. But she has fought many Tiger's Eyes, or Agates. 

So, she doesn't need such delicacy! Despite that, without knowing why, she allows Ymir to spoil her. She doesn't need any bandages, she'll be fully healed before the day becomes night, and she's again fresh and shiny as a flower. She looks at the lake, and a little mischief appears in her mind. The contact of her naked skin against hers stings very little the moment she grabs her hand, pushing her into the lake. Ymir doesn't fall alone.

 

[ ... ]

 

They spend most of the morning fighting in the water. Historia laughs and Ymir enjoys it. As they don't need to breathe, not really, they sink to the deep part of the water and grab each other's ankles, like they are algae. They get out once in a while, exchanging funny looks. Historia shines so much, it's almost difficult to look at her directly. Perfect. She is absolutely perfect.

While she plays and laughs, Ymir thinks. She is not feeling any pain as they touch each other's bare skin, and she knows she should. Is it a matter of hate? Of good and evil? Of comprehension? Her head is twisting around in possibility, and Christa catches her off-guard. She hugs her with arms and legs, making the demon's unuseful, and she tickles her against the rocks in the bottom. Ymir frees her arm with so little effort it is like a game for children, and she swims with Christa stuck to her. Her wings are burdensome, they get dirty with everything, but that doesn't keep her from lying by the edge of the lake, enjoying midday's sun, with a happy smile for only clothing. Feeling observed, she uses her lower wings to cover herself a little, rolling her eyes. Ymir, unlike her, doesn't hesitate to strip and leave her clothes to dry in a tree's branch, and she lies beside her, eyes focused on the sky.

"Is it beautiful?" She only goes to Heaven to battle, a few times, and not even a demon has surpasses the true gates. They have no idea how it really is. Full of spirits? A normal city where the peace rules? "Up there, I mean."

"It's marvelous! I can't... Tell you much, but it's the best place to be, that I know," Christa assures her, with dreamy voice, raising a hand. It's like she wants to touch the clouds and keep climbing.

"Do you miss it a lot, then?" Ymir tries to make it sound like it's a normal doubt, but there is some bitterness in her words, and she doesn't know why. Heaven is Christa's place, that's obvious, Even if she hates Hell because it's the worst place to be, that doesn't mean everyone must fight their origins.

"Yes, that's for sure!" Christa answers very fast, insultingly fast. She seems to adore Heaven, where she can be herself. Ymir also likes to feel essence, ethereal. "But... I also like this world. I can feel things that there, surrounded in perfection, go unnoticed. Happiness, gratitude, curiosity. It's great, don't you think, Ymir?

"How do you know my name?" The demon feels like she has just jumped out of her skin. If she knows, what other things has she listened. She should have never trusted it to an angel. Knowing a demon's name is controlling it. Why has she said it, even is she was asleep? It's not even an excuse now.

"You told me. You told me lots of things when I was asleep," she says, making it seem like it is not that important. She plays with her fingers, reaching the same conclusion as her. It can be seen in her face, as well as regret. "I won't use it against you, I swear! An angel's oath is unbreakable!

The angel looks honest, but since that moment, Ymir goes back to her eggshell. She has personality and bad temper for a while, but she gives Christa her clothes and shoes, and she dresses silently. She serves her food, leftovers of a meat stew, in a deep dish and sprinkled with little sunflowers, that Christa eats without a complaint. Ymir can't believe it when she sees her pouty mouth. She is sulking in a very childish way, and she doesn't want to know what she is currently thinking. When Christa finishes her food, she gets up and grabs a rock, throwing it to the waterfall. She keeps doing so, trying to lighten her bad mood, so concentrated she doesn't notice the tears rolling down her cheeks, or her soft obs. Ymir, on the contrary, does. Her hand is on Christa's shoulder before she starts crying.

"What's the matter? Are you in pain? Have you hurt yourself?" She inspects her from head to toe, without spotting any threat, and she slowly moves her hand to Christa's nape, where her Blue Glass is. She doesn't have her gloves on, but she doesn't feel what she should. Just smooth, cold, perfect glass.

"It's nothing. I... I always mess up," Christa whispers, her face scrunched and filled with anger. She trembles, and the stone slips off her hand, making an enveloping sound when it rolls into the water. Her blue eyes are wet, and they look at her with some dificulties. Ymir breathes. So she feels guilty. Christa is going to give her a heart atack one day. It is crime to ruin such a pretty face for something like that.

"I don't need you to feel bad. I've told you my name, I carry on with the consequencies, isn't it fair? C'mon, you love justice, angel." Ymir, who doesn't want and isn't able to control the urgence to confort her, slides an arm around her shoulders and she makes Christa lean on her body. Christa, as bold as you like, huggs her tight. The demon, smiling, pats her head, as she muses, "There, there, it's nothing, you brat."

 

[ ... ]

 

Not having a concrete conception of time doesn't help Historia recover fast. She only releases Ymir an eternity later, when she is calm and ready to help her pack up. It's late already, and as Ymir has said, "Good girls go to sleep early." Once in the cottage, Ymir gets water from the well to cook some kind of soup while Historia studies the curious books on a shelf. She asks her about them as they eat, and a conversation starts to flow fluently, more or less nice, more or less funny, more or less... Normal. The angel recognizes there the tough woman who had talked to her in her sleep, and they deepen on the more interesting topics for both: painting and reading, but mostly exploring the world. It's fascinating to see Ymir smiling because of a smooth brushstroke, or just to listen to her speaking, with words better or worse used. She loves to tease her, and Historia enjoys seeing her relaxed, happy. Ymir is more than just a demon, she is a person on her own, Historia is very sure of that as she hears more of her hobbies and aspirations.

"But we can talk about this tomorrow. Right now, Missy, you are going to go to bed, or else you'll ruin that dumb face of yours," Ymir scolds her, taking Historia in her arms like she has a feather's weight and freeing her above the bed. She has already tried for the angel to sleep in the good way, but Historia had only pouted about how she's old enough to know when she has to get into her trances. 

Ymir thinks otherwise, and she doesn't stand a chance against her, still, so Historia gives up and crawls into her little space in the mattress. Ymir has to fix up everything, spoiling her once more, before she lies beside her, as rigid as ever. Historia thinks she could kick her and she wouldn't notice.

"Dumb? But you told me I was the most beautiful creature you had ever seen," she reminds her. Bringing up the previous topic, she drops her eyelashes. "Have you made up your mind?" Historia knows how to pretend very well that she is better than she really is, and she suspects Ymir has caught her little lie as the master of lies she is, but she doesn't speak a word. When the angel grabs her t-shirt, Ymir frowns and looks away, probably wishing that she was already sleeping like she should. 

That only turns on more Historia's teasing, who gets closer to her body slowly, inch by inch, thinking she's not going to notice it anyway. She seems to do, because she sighs and stretches out her arms, receiving Historia in a hug like she was pretending to do. A happy hum can be heard as the angel, with her wings folded as neatly as she can, hugs her back and slips her fingertips behind the back of the other's shirt, feeling how they burn in comparison to her own's icy touch,

"I asked you if you had made up your mind," she repeats in a whisper, her voice more amused than innocent.

"Fuck, Christa. I'm a demon, I'm rude," Ymir blurts quickly. Historia whishes she could see her face in this very moment, when she says, even faster, "I haven't, okay? I still think you're beautiful so go to fucking sleep now _or else_..."

Her laughter comes a little too low, muffled against Ymir's shoulder. She is such an awkward, clumsy demon! Even if her words have been not delicate at all, Historia decides she doesn't mind. One of her hand crawls up to reach Ymir's scalp, and follows some strands of her dark hair in a soothing pace. Silently, she smiles.

"Night-night, Ymir. Sleep tight."

"G'night."

 

[ ... ]

 

From that day on, her relationships gets better and more intimate and Christa's wings get stronger. They seem to understand each other despite their contrary natures. Christa seems to have more trouble than Ymir, because the demon will show a complete uninterest and at the same time she protects Christa from wild beasts, she scolds her for her 'radically heavenly goodness' and askes her to act on behalf of her own selfish desires. That last part, she repeats it a lot, to almost every thing Christa answers.

"Can I go swimming to the waterfall?"

"Do whatever you want," Ymir responds, her legs on the sofa, focused on reading.

"Yesterday I saw some deers by the river, do you think they'll still be there?" Christa smiles and looks for a sketchbook and a pencil.

"Well, there's only a way to find out," Ymir's voice never loses that spark, daring her to go alone as she goes out to hunt.

"Ymir, I'm going to test my wings!" Christa shouts cheerfully with a hand on the doorframe, her head only slightly twisted in Ymir's direction.

"Have fun," Ymir wishes her, waving her hand while she relaxes on a branch.

With her map of the Nine Circles of Hell on the table, Ymir drums her fingers on the edge. It's not strange from angels and demons to have their battles there, in the Vestibule of Hell, because to get into the real Hades you need more than a bright pair of wings and a flaming sword. She has been busier than normal, commanding her troops, summon after summon, and it's been good for Christa and her. It's been three weeks since the accident, and the angel is almost fully recovered. Ymir has seen her fly, joining her sometimes, and she suspects she could reach Heaven, far as it can be, with no problems. Also, Ymir is healing that willing attitude of hers, tempting her to make her own decisions and indulging her acts and her thoughts, a very angel-like thing. Is she corrupting her, then? Ymir likes to think she is letting her be free and happy for once in a lifetime.

Risks come with that freedom. Every morning Christa wakes up very early, gets out and back in matter of minutes, believing Ymir is in trance. The demon is perfectly aware she's trying to go back, her sense of duty is still too overwhelming, but she is also aware that she decides to stay with her. Every single day Christa chooses Ymir over Heaven, for some unexplainable reason, and every single day Ymir struggles to be worthy of it. At least, to make her enjoy it while they can.

"I'm home!" Christa singsongs. Sun has just fallen, and she knows it is time to get back. When Ymir looks at her, she has to narrow her eyes. Christa is shining over her enthusiasm.

"I see you. Too much, actually," Ymir smirks, and Christa sticks her tongue at her, jumping on her tiptoes. The demon folds her maps in an studied movement and opens her arms as the angel jumps to embrace her tightly. A little too tighly. "Okay, what's the deal? Have the wolves adopted you or something?"

"No, silly. I brought them food and they were nice, but I've found something else! You _have_ to come and see it," Christa pleads, grabbing Ymir's hand between her white, small ones, and shots her 'The Look': pouty lips, tilted head, wet eyes. Ymir can't ignore it. She rolls her eyes and nods, and just as fast, Christa claps, unimpressed. That little monster. "You won't regret it, you'll see!"

Each one keeps their distance as they fly. Their human bodies are not repelled at all by now, but Ymir's wings, dark and squamous, feel very cold flapping beside Christa's. She follows her little body above the trees. The forest feels eternal, a laberynth for someone who doesn't know it, but whatever Christa wants to show her, she must have seen it before. She knows every glare or waterfall, every burrow or possible hiding place. Anyway, she won't take that cheerfulness from her.

 

[ ... ]

 

Historia turns around to make sure Ymir is following her, and she smiles her wholeheartedly. From a bad thing, a good thing can bloom, and never better said, and that exposure of her recovered magic has cheered her up. She directs her flapping to a ordinary meadow, covered in flowers that doesn't stand out in the darkness of the night, and flies towards the very centre of it. She knows Ymir must be looking at her with interrogant signs in her eyes, so she falls to the ground and the earth lits instantaneously. Flowers shine with a light blue glow that conveys peace and coolness. Historia kneels to caress a flower's petals, proud, and when she rises Ymir is grabbing her by her waist, lifting her above the ground.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Light languises gradually, and all flowers glow their goodbyes. Historia had transmitted them part of her magic once she walked by, and they shine when they recognize her presence. She thinks it is a beautiful and colourful event, and she doesn't understands why Ymir would think otherwise.

"Do you think it's wise to do your heavenly magic in a demon's playground? Field's been supervised, it feels and absorbes information. What are we going to do if they come for you?" Ymir shouts, out of her mind, drilling her with her ink swirls, closing her eyes after. Historia has felt something, but she doesn't know what it was. Her heart is shrunken, with very real possibilities in her mind. Someone may have felt it. How she hates Morning Star.

"I don't even know why you would care! I'm an angel, it is your duty to kill me." Historia sounds angry, showing off her feelings, as Ymir has asked her multiple times. She struggles to get away of her arms, and when she can't, she says, frustrated, "Everything I do is stupid, isn't it? I can't do anything right!"

And there she is. The Seraph, whether she likes it or not, has a great inferiority complex. It is not normal, considering her high rank. She has the world in her hands. She should be arrogant, as Ymir or more, and she spends her eternity despising herself. Ymir crosses the flowery meadow with her in her arms, putting her on the ground when they are far enough.

"Stop playing dumb, Christa. You know perfectly why I can't kill you." She starts walking fast towards the house, avoiding to look at her in the eye. She has included Historia in her spell, so she'll be able to follow without getting lost. However, the angel forces her to stop, grabbing her sleeve and pushing. She has recovered her normal strenght, and she makes Ymir stop in the middle of a step.

"Well then, say it, if you are so brave," Historia only has to mutter. Her murmur is loud in Ymir's ears. All forest has shut up, sensing the titans' fight incoming. Ymir, surprised and perhaps a bit sorry for forcing her to express her every wish or disobeying, lifts her chin. Her dark eyes are shouting. _Do you want to hear it? Oh, you will_ , they say. She twists to face the angel and grabs her by her thin shoulders.

"Damn, because I'm  _in_ _love_ with you, Christa." Even if she's confessing, she still has that teasing smirk in her face when she asks, "What'll you do now, angel?"

It has been obvious since the start, Ymir hasn't tried to conceal it much, so it doesn't surprise Historia. She lifts her chin suddenly, her eyes flaming with blue fire. Is she daring her? What a vile way to make someone act. It is so demon-like. So Ymir-like. Taking a long step, Historia grabs her ripped jacket's folds and steps on her tiptoes.

"You're so mean," she sighs against her lips, and she kisses her like it is not the first time she has done so. And the world doesn't spin around, and she doesn't feel in the seventh cloud. On the contrary, she is conscious of where she is, in the land, and she can't be more glad to be there.  She feels, for the first time, that she doesn't have to belong to an uniform everything, not one Seraph more. 

She is a person, unique and special, and she is loved by the woman who follows her kiss tenderly, her hands on Historia's cheeks, deepening it without the slightless trace of pain. The bond, must be, then. The stronger the bond, the less they hurt each other, or so likes Historia to think when they separate and she giggles out of raw happiness. Ymir's hands settle on her back, pressing her bodies together and kissing her forehead.

"Not bad for an angel, I guess," and cunning shines in her smile, before she resumes her return to the cottage in a fast pace, but not as urgent as before.

"Stop teasing," Historia claims, trying to keep her speed with legs at least half the other's lenght, and she pushes Ymir. "This angel would win in any race, you cocky demon."

Ymir shots a leer to her, to the face who tries to be convincing, menacing, and she chuckles as she gets ready. Their steps are less and less as they run like leopards. There's no one who would beat Historia in terms of running, or floating, fast, and also she suspects Ymir is not giving it her all, and there they are, flying through the trees, with their wings bent against their scapulae so they won't hit the trunks. The angel is the first one to touch the stone of the cottage with a victorious scream.

"See? I told y--," she shouts, interrupted again by the demon's lips on hers. Historia lets out a muffled cry, but in the second after she's interlacing her fingers on Ymir's nape, stroking her Onyx like it is the most precious thing in the world. Under her hands, the gem is beating, hot, vital. It determines her rank and gives her life. It is just a shade lighter than Obsidian, the gem that rules the Superior Spirits. Historia's gem is the most pure and clear before the Diamond, belonging to The Throne, and it beats in the same place as Ymir's. 

Where are those thoughts driving her? Should she oppose any resistance to the hands which touch her with so much care, so much love, instead of helping them to get rid of everything that separates them? Now _that_ would be madness. Historia's heart, completely unuseful until that very moment, is filled with pleasure, shaking under her caresses, her kisses. Her legs are tangled in her sheets, and Ymir's ink is flowing up and down her body, and she doesn't care at all. She screams and moves and tries to keep her breath steady, failing. Her hair, normally perfect, is messy, and so is the demon's. They both share an eccstatic smile. Their attempts to fuse their sould will stop when the moon is very high in the sky, and some more time will pass until they stop talking and get into their trances.

 

[ ... ]

 

Ymir's hand fumbles on the sheets, looking in the empty bed for something else than her own body. Sun is up now. Where the heck is Christa? She is fearing the worst, and she dresses at lightspeed. She can't be gone. Not in that moment, and definitely not after last night. Has it disgusted her so much? What about their promise? She closes her eyes and relaxes a little. She feels Christa, right in that moment. Ymir flies towards the flowery meadow, faster than fast. Why does she have that rotten feeling? Something is pleading her to go back, to run away? She ignores it and keeps going, more desperate, crushing bushes and trees in order to arrive. And she does, and she regrets it.

A silver liquid's puddle surrounds the blond corolla that is now her lover's head. She is laying on her side, giving Ymir her back, and she sees the skin in her neck wet and torn apart, her beautiful gem broken in a thousand shards. Flowers around her are glowing faintly, and what conveyed peace has been turned to sadness, loss. Ymir kneels beside her and rises her body as carefully as she had healed her wounds, but she can't do a thing, just hug her and repeat her name.

"Let me sleep a bit more," Christa anwers, reluctant, with the weak smile of someone who has given up.

"Live. Christa, live for me, live for you, for God, whatever, but live!" Ymir begs, tears in her eyes, and the angel huffs in a very sarcastic way, like saying,  _I'd love to, but it's not going to be possible._ "Don't you remember, everything we've been through? You have to stay."

"I do remember. I'm Historia, fifth Seraph of God. I'm free and," she gets quiet, trying to get some energy from the flowers. She is draining it all, so they slowly fade, but that's not enough, "I love you, Ymir. Please, get out of here."

"I won't leave you alone. Didn't I tell you? We're going to take care of each other forever." The angel's true name seems irrelevant in that moment, and she holds the biggest shard of the gem, smaller than her thumb, to slip it into her pocket. She looks past the trees. Whoever that had done that must be close, perhaps observing. And Ymir will kill them.

"You don't stand a chance against the Morning Star. Go away," Historia demands, scowling as she sees Ymir hasn't moved an inch. She whispers, "I'm sorry," and starts tracing symbols which glow light in the demon's tan skin. Urgence grows in Ymir's face. "Demon Ymir, I command you to leave this place. For I hold the glory of the Diamond in my soul I expulse you. For I have the power of your name, you obey me. Evil being, hear my plea and wash away your sin by means of The Judgement. Amen."

Sooner than later, Ymir feels like her guts are being twisted and someone is pulling her up, where she has never been. Her eyes are on Historia, who has closed hers on the withered flowers, and seems happy. How she loves her, despite having taken away only a second of her time, her last second. Despite having sent her to the point of no return. She is ethereal then, essence itself, free essence, while on Earth the Morning Star curses behind her breath.

 

[ ... ]

 

An angel can't die. An angel is replaced by other with the same soul in some moment of the eternity, for all the years to come. The balance must be equilibrated for a proper functioning of the world, God knows that well. They steal one Seraph, He'll steal a general lieutenant, and the Morning Star promotes a crueler one, more murderous than the latter. That's strategy, and the lieutenant has been severely damaged in every angel's eyes. She must have cut every bonds with Hell, change her name, lower her rank to become an ordinary angel, show the tatoos that prove her as a renegate to Hell and gives her powers she wasn't born with. Yet, she admits it with gratitude out of place. She has even volunteered for an Extraction of her gem, replaced by an Amber, ignoring the risk which held the procedure. At last, the gem had accepted her new bearer.

Every angel in Heaven believes to know her true motives, which are whispered in every corner, dreamy or condescendent, while the angel caresses her blue glass necklace and utters some words. What does she utter? That's a secret only known by two people, the angel herself and The Throne. What does she utter, then, that makes her recover her faith and strenght to fight back ? If you listen closely, her lips mouth an:

"You're playing hard to get, angel."

Eternal.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! First of all, this fic was posted in Fanfiction many months ago, in October (only now I had time to translate, and only now I felt like it, to be honest). My name is sendmeademon there, like basically everywhere, so check it out if you want!
> 
> This was my first fanfic for the fandom nd it was so dramatic, like basically everything I've written about this couple, because they plead for it. They are perfect for angst, I swear. I wrote it with the help of a friend who read this before the rest and corrected a few things, so thanks, Luisy, to avoid any OoCness in the characters you love so much!
> 
> Time for unnecesary facts! I added the gems thinking a little in Steven Universe, that's true, but just the concept of it, the existence of it. The darker the gem is, the more powerful the demon, and the lighter the gem, the more powerfull the angel, and viceversa. I kept the gems in their napes because, well, titan's vital point is there and I wanted to make a parallelism. Plus, and changing the topic, gems are aesthetic. Really cute. I like them. Period.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
